"Can you tell us at all how far we really are from some sort of shelter—I mean the nearest shelter at hand?" questioned Jack of Uncle Barney, as the old lumberman came back to see what had happened.
"It's about a mile to my cabin," was the reply.
"And is that the nearest place?" asked Fred, who had sat down on the bobsled load to rest.
"No. The nearest place is a little hut that I put up at this end of the island several years ago. It isn't very much of a shelter, but it might do."
"Do you mean we could stay there all night?" queried Randy.
"Oh, yes. It's plenty large enough for all of us, and there is a rough fireplace where we could start a blaze and cook something."
"Then let's head for that place, by all means!" cried Jack. "This storm is getting worse every minute."
With the wind whistling keenly in their ears and blowing the snow across the ice and into numerous high drifts, the little party moved on once more, the boys doing their best to keep up with the old lumberman. This was comparatively easy, for even Uncle Barney was well-nigh exhausted by his exertions.
"If this snow keeps on, it will be one of the worst storms we ever had up here," he announced. "But, somehow, I don't think it will last; the sky didn't look heavy enough this afternoon."
"I hope it doesn't last," returned Jack.